allow me to get real
If I may
the car wash where I work *****
money is great
because I love to blow it
but work is soul crushing
sometimes I fantasize
about going to sleep
and never waking up
not suicide
just an infinite nothing
in one small **** I could be gone
and not have to worry
about letting down my crazy alcoholic mother
who I love more than I would've thought possible
or my absentee father
who has been a wallet whom I've grown a surprising attachment to
and you all read my poems
I scoff at even calling them that
but you read them
and maybe think,
I can relate
or I like his style
well lemme tell you something
my style is self destruction
***** stained sofas
and ****** faces
and there is no glamour to it
and I'll be the first to tell you
there's no glory
I'm in a hole
and I'm addicted to digging
but if I may
let me say this
don't worry about me
worry about you
worry about what will happen when we all wake up
and ask ourselves
what the **** have I been doing with my life
where did all of this time go
all I can say is this
if you aren't living
on your own terms
working towards whatever it is you SOB's love
then you might as well die now
because if you aren't living for passion
are you really living at all?

I never wanted to be a poet
I dreamed to be a trail of starlight
looking at which
you would lose yourself
to spin yarns of fairy words.
I yearned to fall from the sky
as the dew
surrounded by the liquid darkness
that begets for you a new day.
I loved to be that southern breeze
that while kissing you
takes you to thoughts unheard of.
A patch of sun through your window,
Moonbeam on your eyelids
to find you in deep dream
and all such things…….

I didn’t deserve all these glories…
I became a poet!

Beams of light cut through the rain.
Searing with energy, melting to wane.
Thinning and wearing, shadows emerge.
Thousands of droplets, driven like herds.
Repelling and splashing fighting for space,
thanking the sun for the delight of a chase.

Maybe if I paint my lips red
I’ll forget I’m hallow
And maybe if I put on
My favorite skinny jeans
I’ll know what it means to feel
pretty
I’ll remember that
I have tomorrow
And the clinching in my chest
Meant to jest at my own demise
And the way I despise myself
Won’t always show in sad blue water eyes
I can’t hide at the back of the shelf.
I can’t  be stifled by my own sorrow,
Let me borrow your sunshine,
I’ll bring mine tomorrow.

I do not much care for poets
We're a touchy bunch indeed
How we validate our feelings
By what other people read
How we dive into our writing
Like a swine into its mud
And we savor every sentence
Like a ruminating cud
How we strike upon the heartstrings
Of the others like ourselves
But we feel so violated
When we're pulled out of our shells
How we make such grand investments
With our twenty dollar words
Toward the inevitability
That our voice will be heard
And we slather on the sentiment
With metaphoric verse
Vindication in our imagery
So beautiful and terse
And I sometimes have to wonder
If the reason we create
Is exclusively attracting
Someone else who can relate
No, I don't much care for poets
Though the blame is not on you
As the simple truth about it
Is that I'm a poet too